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@notsafeforlunch
Just wanted to say I love your fics, especially the latest one is amazing, and I adore the pictures you include.
Would you ever consider continuing that one fic with the roles reversed, so her catching his bug and he goes to repay the favor?
Ohh thank you so much! Sure, I'd love to do that ♡
Executive Breakdown
TW: emeto, sickness.
It's been a while since I last dropped an emeto fic here, right? Hope you like it. This one is now one of my favorites. (Images below!) -----------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was six in the evening, and the assistants on the lower floors had already begun the quiet ritual of leaving: heels clicking toward the elevators, keyboards going dark, lights dimmed in orderly rows. Francesca hated that hour. Not only because she wouldn’t be free to go home until seven, but because it was when Anthony Moretti acted more like himself, and when any deviation from that carefully constructed self became impossible to ignore.
The glass walls, the marble floors, the city spread below like a private kingdom. Everything about Moretti’s empire was designed to make people feel small. Including her. Especially her.
Francesca had noticed the first break in his meticulously curated composure at 2:47 p.m, when she entered his office to take water and saw him pausing mid-sentence during a board call, loosening his tie. Anthony did not loosen his tie. Ever. The silk was usually a noose he wore willingly, a symbol of control cinched perfectly at his throat. This afternoon, though, his fingers fumbled with it, tugging once, twice, as if the fabric itself had turned against him.
Fran clocked it instantly. Filed it away. She didn’t comment. Not because she hadn’t noticed, but because she knew exactly when to strike and when to let silence do the damage. She had perfected that balance over time: She would choose silence when he snapped at her for breathing too loudly, and when he pretended the nights they’d tangled themselves together in bed sheets and bad decisions had never happened. Also, when his eyes burned with something dark and hungry every time she walked into his office in heels that she knew he hated because he couldn’t stop looking.
Hours later, there she was, silent on her desk, twirling strands of her red hair around her fingers, bored. The blue light of the monitor washing over her face as she waited for the clock to strike seven, as usual.
“Francesca,” his voice sounded from behind the closed door.
Her name in his mouth always landed wrong. Too deliberate, too weighted. She stepped forward anyway, pushing open the heavy door. “Yes?”
“You’re free to go.”
The words hung there, alien. As she stepped closer to his executive desk, she saw him: standing, facing the big window in the back of the room. His fingers hooked under the silk, tugging at the knot even more as if he were suffocating.
Her brows drew together before she could stop herself. “Excuse me?”
“I said you’re free to go,” he repeated, looking down, voice clipped, brittle at the edges. “I don’t need you anymore today, go home.”
That was a lie.
She could hear it. Feel it. He never sent her away early. Not once in the three years she’d been his assistant. He kept her late out of principle, out of control, out of whatever unspoken war they’d been waging since the first time they’d crossed a line neither of them acknowledged in daylight.
Fran didn’t move.
“Are you… okay?”
The air shifted. Something heavy slid into place between them, thick and electric and dangerous. He finally looked at her, straightening instinctively, shoulders back, spine rigid, as if posture alone could hold him together.
It didn’t.
His nostrils flared: “Go home, I’m fine.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
They stared at each other, the familiar rivalry snapping between them like a live wire. The assistant who never backed down. The boss who never yielded. God, they’d hated each other so beautifully once. Still did, in quieter ways.
The color drained further from his face. His hands now tightened on the desk, knuckles whitening, tendons standing out stark against his skin. His other hand flew back to his throat, fingers tugging at his loosened tie as if it was possible to loosen it even more.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, offended by the audacity of his own malaise for bothering him and, even more, by Francesca’s audacity for not doing as she was told: leaving.
Fran took a step forward. “Mr. Moretti?”
He swallowed hard. Too hard. His Adam's apple bobbed violently, and his eyes unfocused, gaze drifting past her shoulder like he was trying not to see something rising fast inside him.
Then she heard it.
A sharp, involuntary gag. Dry, rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
Her stomach dropped.
“Fuck!” he said, hoarsely, already moving.
He didn’t walk so much as stagger, long strides suddenly uncoordinated, one shoulder clipping the doorframe as he bolted past her. His jacket slipped half off one shoulder, forgotten. Another gag tore out of him, louder this time, raw and ugly.
Francesca didn’t think straight, just followed.
His private executive bathroom was pristine: marble floors, brushed steel fixtures, spotless to the point of sterility, cleaned twice a day. The kind of room designed for power, not weakness. Anthony didn't close the door, since he barely made it in time to the toilet.
He dropped to his knees, one hand slamming the lid up as his body folded over itself. The sound that came out of him was violent, wrenching, his whole frame contracting as he retched, dry at first, then painfully wet.
She reached for him instinctively, then stopped, hesitation flaring. This was Anthony.
Untouchable. Cruel. Magnetic. The man who had pinned her against walls and then ignored her existence the next morning.
His suit jacket slid off completely now, puddling uselessly on the floor. His tie hung loose, crooked, the knot undone. He braced one hand on the cold porcelain, the other pressed hard to his stomach as another wave hit him, harsher than the last.
“Do you need anything?” she whispered, not sure what she was asking for.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
His shoulders shook beneath the expensive fabric of his dress shirt, now darkening at the spine with sweat.
He gagged again.
This time nothing came up, just a dry, violent heave that bent him double, one shoulder knocking the toilet with a dull thud. His jaw clenched hard enough that she could see the muscle jump.
She stepped closer, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal that still had teeth. She didn’t touch him, but crouched so they were level.
“I'm going home.” he said hoarsely. “You should go too.”
“What are you saying? You can’t even stand”
“Is the driver available?”
“The driver left already, Anthony” she said, sharper than she intended. Then, gentler: “It's no big deal I can take you there.”
That did it.
“No,” he said immediately, automatic. “You're not driving my car.”
She folded her arms slowly, deliberately, looking down at him where he knelt: pale, sweating, very far from untouchable. “And you are?”
His mouth twitched, irritated. “Don’t start.”
His jaw tightened.
“If you honestly think you can make it home on your own...” she went on lightly, too lightly, “say the word. I’ll grab my bag and leave you to it. No harm done.”
For a heartbeat, he looked like he might take her up on it out of sheer spite.
He swallowed, eyes squeezing shut, pride visibly wrestling with reality.
“Fine,” he bit out at last, the word rough, torn from him. “Drive.”
Francesca didn’t smile, but something warm and deeply satisfied unfurled in her chest all the same.
As he pushed himself up from the floor, stubborn pride outrunning his balance, he faltered. Tilted. His shoulder bumped into her. Solid. Real. For a second, they were touching, barely, but it was enough. She felt the heat of him through fabric.
Francesca grabbed a towel from the rack and held it out. He took it with clumsy fingers, wiping his mouth, his jaw tight with humiliation. Then she fetched his jacket, slung it over her arm and handed him his phone from the intern pocket, reaching for the car keys.
The elevator ride down was quiet, brutal.
Anthony leaned back against the mirrored wall, eyes closed, head tipped slightly forward. He’d undone another button of his shirt; sweat had soaked through the cotton, clinging to him in a way that looked almost obscene against the immaculate tailoring.
The underground garage was cool and dim, concrete echoing under their footsteps. His car waited where it always did: low, black, expensive in a way that didn’t need to announce itself.
When she slid into the driver’s seat; his seat; something shifted irrevocably. The engine purred to life under her hands.
Anthony Moretti, untouchable king of glass towers and cold decisions, sat beside her, helpless and sick, trusting her to get him home.
“Do you have any idea of what might have caused this?” she asked, as he leaned his head back against the leather, eyes closed, face drawn and pale beneath the city lights.
Anthony swallowed. The movement looked painful. “Bad shellfish,” he said after a moment. “Lunch meeting. Private club. The irony is… I chose it.”
She glanced at him, fingers tightening briefly on the wheel. “Never saw you sick before.”
A corner of his mouth twitched, humorless. “Doesn't happen often.”
The city slid past them in streaks of light and shadow. Traffic was mercifully light; the car seemed to glide, insulated from the world by leather and quiet. Anthony kept his eyes closed most of the way, hands braced on his thighs like an anchor.
His building rose out of the dark like a private monument: glass, stone, discretion. The doorman straightened when the car pulled up, recognition instant, but Fran waved him off with a practiced calm before he could ask questions. Anthony didn’t open his eyes.
“I’m just going up with you to make sure you’re settled, and then I’m leaving,” she said, parking the vehicle. “Is there anyone you want me to call?"
“Suddenly concerned for my health, Miss Harrison?”
Even with his skin pasty and his body failing him, the vitriol remained intact. It seemed that being caustic wasn't a choice for Anthony Moretti; it was a reflex, as vital to his survival as breathing.
Francesca didn't blink. She just watched him, her expression unreadable. “If you die, I lose my job, Mr. Moretti. Pure profit.”
Inside, the elevator climbed in smooth silence. Fran watched the numbers rise, aware of the faint sway in Anthony’s stance as he leaned against the wall, jacket still draped over her arm like something borrowed.
The doors opened directly into the apartment.
Everything inside was exactly as she remembered: exactly as him.
The same scent of expensive cedar and cold ambition, the same dim, amber lighting that had blurred the edges of the last night she’d spent here. A night that officially didn't exist, where the marble counters had been cold against her skin and his hands had been anything but professional. It was the kind of memory they had both silently agreed to bury under a mountain of spreadsheets and icy silence.
Anthony took two steps in, then he stopped short, one hand flying to the wall.
“Not again, fuck,” he breathed, rushing to the closest sink: the kitchen's.
He braced both hands against the marble, shoulders hunched, breathing hard through his nose like he was trying to will his body into obedience. The kitchen lights were too bright, reflecting off stainless steel and stone, making the pallor of his skin impossible to ignore. Fran hovered a step behind him, acutely aware that she was standing in his space now: his real space, not the polished, public one.
He bent forward, unrestrained, but nothing came out. His spine curving, the expensive shirt pulling tight across his back. Sweat slicked the fabric, darkening it further, clinging to him like a second skin, but still, only dry heaves and spit. Frustrating, as the nausea kept rising but he couldn't let anything out.
Francesca flinched, then steadied herself.
She’d seen people sick before. That wasn’t it.
This was Anthony Moretti, brought low in the center of his immaculate kingdom, and the dissonance rattled her. The man who dictated meetings down to the minute, who dismantled people with a look, was gripping the edge of his kitchen's counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Fran placed a steadying hand just at his elbow, barely there:
“Do you need help to get somewhere?"
“Yeah. My bathroom upstairs I need to shower.”
He answered, drying the sweat on his forehead.
The suite's bathroom was dimmer, cooler. Marble again, pristine, echoing.
“Sit,” she said, steering him toward the toilet's closed lid. He obeyed: that alone telling her how bad it was.
He took a shallow breath, eyes unfocused, looking dizzy. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his dress shirt, clumsy and shaking, frustration tightening his mouth.
“Ok, I’ve got it” she said quietly.
He stiffened, but didn’t stop her.
“You didn't answer if there is someone you want me to call"
Se said, as her fingers worked efficiently, unfastening the buttons one by one, peeling the damp fabric away from his skin. The shirt clung stubbornly at his shoulders, sweat-soaked and heavy. When she slid it free, she became sharply aware of the heat radiating off him, the fine tremor running through his frame. He didn't answer right away, so she said:
“I'm gonna leave, so you can shower, ok? It will make you feel better.”
“No, stay.”
Fran’s breath caught before she could stop it. She straightened slowly, acutely aware of the space between them shrinking into something intimate and dangerous. This was his apartment. His bathroom. His vulnerability. Every instinct told her she was trespassing somewhere sacred.
“I feel miserable,” he added, quieter now, almost detached. “And no, there is... no one to call".
She studied him for a second longer than necessary. His shoulders were slumped, the sharp lines of him softened by exhaustion and nausea. Without the armor of his suit jacket and pristine shirt, he looked… human. Too human. And that did something to her: something warm and unsettling that slid low in her chest and stayed there.
“Ok! Lucky for you,” she said lightly, already reaching for the shower controls “I’m very hard to get rid of.”
A faint huff of breath left him. It might have been a laugh.
She let the water warm while keeping one eye on him, still sat on the closed toilet lid, no shirt, elbows braced on his thighs, head bowed.
“You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” he muttered without looking up, taking off his shoes and fancy patterned executive socks.
She paused. “Enjoying?”
“Seeing me like this.”
She snorted softly. “Oh, trust me, Moretti, this is not how I imagined getting you undressed again.”
That did it. His head lifted, eyes flicking up to hers, sharp even now, though dulled around the edges by sickness. For a moment, the air thickened, heavy with memory.
Her back against his kitchen counter. His mouth at her throat. The way he’d said her name like it was a secret he hated knowing.
They both felt it. She knew they did.
“Low blow,” he said hoarsely.
The water steamed now, filling the space with warmth and fog. He shifted, standing too quickly in order to remove the rest of his clothes.
“Careful” she warned, noticing how gravity had apparently turned against him. “don't fall.”
Helping him out of his pants was… complicated. Not because of anything illicit, but because his hands wouldn’t cooperate and his balance was poor.
“This is officially the most undignified thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said weakly as she tugged the fabric down.
Fran worked with brisk efficiency, eyes deliberately unfocused, aware of every inch of space she was violating. He kept his underwear, anyway, but it was still mortifying.
“Statistically impossible,” she replied. “I’ve seen you lose a board vote.”
A ghost of a smile curved his mouth.
She guided him under the spray, keeping it warm, one hand steady at his forearm as he entered the stall. His grip tightened on her wrist, just instinctively, a man anchoring himself to the nearest solid thing.
Her chest tightened, staying in such a narrow space face to face with the devil him.
She reached for the shampoo, hands shaking just slightly now. "Excuse me" Francesca murmured, the words soft, almost formal.
He didn’t answer. Just lifted his head a fraction and gave a single, slow nod permission granted. Washing his hair felt intimate in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Her fingers slid through dark strands gone limp with sweat, massaging gently as water ran down his temples, his neck, his chest, steam already curling around them. The glass door fogged instantly as she nudged it shut behind them, the world shrinking to tiled walls, white noise, and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.
“Is this… normal? I mean, I ate some bad shellfish, but should it really feel like I’m about to die?”
He said it with complete sincerity, brows drawn together, eyes searching her face for confirmation, as if she might suddenly tell him this was, in fact, fatal. Fran blinked, caught off guard by the naked anxiety in his expression. Anthony Moretti, who negotiated hostile takeovers without blinking, who flew through turbulence like it was nothing, was genuinely afraid his body had betrayed him beyond repair.
“You just have a stomach bug, Mr. Moretti,” she said, dry but not unkind. “But you’re a man, so, of course it feels like the end of the world.”
His lips pressed together, offended and unconvinced.
“Don’t worry, though” she added, unable to resist the gentle jab. “You’ll live.”
She smiled despite herself. When everything was apparently going back to place…Then dizziness hit him again. Francesca felt it before she saw it: the way his weight shifted, his grip tightening suddenly, fingers digging into her arm.
“Fran,” he murmured, the nickname slipping out unguarded. “I think it's too hot in here, I feel… I don't…”
She tried to reach for the cold faucet to balance the temperature, seeing that the clouds of steam were turning the glass enclosure into a private sauna that was clearly overwhelming him, but their position made it nearly impossible: He was blocking the controls, curved right in front of the faucets, looking far too miserable to even understand what she was trying to do.
Water cascaded down his chest, tracing lines over muscle and bone, over a body she knew too well in flashes and shadows, remembered in heat and half-formed regrets.
Flashback hit her hard: his hands on her wrists, pinning her to silk sheets. His mouth at her ear, voice low, controlled, asking permission like it was a dare. It lasted no more than a heartbeat. A brief, dangerous distraction.
“I’m dizzy,” he said, bringing her back to real life.
“I know,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
He tried.
It wasn’t enough.
His body lurched suddenly, turning his back to her instinctively and just in time, retching hard as his stomach gave in once more.
The first wave came up violently: half-digested food, sour and heavy, unmistakably the remains of whatever shellfish had betrayed him hours earlier on that fancy lunch. The sound was raw, humiliating, echoing too loudly off tile and glass as he vomited onto the shower floor.
She gripped his waist tighter, praying that this man, standing nearly six-foot-three, wouldn't plummet from his own height and take them both down with him.
He barely had time to draw breath before another spasm followed. This one thinner, sharper. Less substance. More burn. His throat made a strangled, broken noise as another gush followed, his stomach contracting with painful determination.
Anthony reached for the tiled wall with his two hands for balance, as she angled his head away from the spray, murmuring nonsense, steady, grounding sounds until it passed. She didn't flinch as she’d seen this before: three younger brothers that she helped to raise, endless flu seasons, late-night emergencies where dignity stopped mattering. Vomit was just a symptom. Noise was just a body misfiring. What mattered was that he didn’t fall, didn’t choke, didn’t lose consciousness.
“It's so disgusting, Fran. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, humbled, eyes squeezed shut, unable to turn around and face her again. “Christ.” his abdomen pulling inward with visible effort, a strained, choking noise vibrating through him as his body emptied what little it still had left.
“Don't be. You're just… sick. It's ok”
When it finally passed, his whole frame sagged against the wall in front of him, trembling from head to toe, emptied and exhausted. Fran guided him out of the shower, carefully, wrapping a thick towel around his shoulders, another around his waist. He let her, compliant now, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
She sat him down on the closed toilet lid once more as the water kept running on the shower to push part of the mess down the drain. Toweled his hair, gentle but thorough, then his shoulders, his arms. Her hands lingering just a little longer than necessary. Seeing him so vulnerable made something in her had shift and it refused to settle.
“You should curse at me,” he said weakly when she left to turn the water off. “You’re very good at it.”
She smiled despite herself. “Save your strength.”
“Can I get you something to wear?”
She volunteered, fearing that Anthony standing up would invite a new wave of chaos into the room.
“My pajamas are in the drawer, on the lower part of my closet. Please”
Fran nodded once and turned away, giving him the space she suspected he desperately needed.
She crouched to open the lower drawer of his closet and found the pajamas folded with military neatness: soft cotton, dark gray, clearly worn enough to be real. The sight of that, of him having something so ordinary, hit her harder than it should have.
Francesca said, handing him the clothes: “I’ll… step outside.”
He dressed himself slowly, methodically, like every movement required negotiation with his body. The pajama top went on crooked the first time; he corrected it with a faint huff of irritation, and left the bathroom, meeting Fran again at his bedroom.
“Feel any better?”
She asked, hopeful.
“Not really.”
She stepped closer and pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead without asking. He flinched at first, then stilled, letting her. His skin was hot. Too hot.
“You’re burning up,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve already done more than enough. I’ll take something and sleep it off.
“Anthony.”
He opened one eye. “Francesca.”
She crossed her arms again, but there was no heat in it now. “You look like you’re about to faint, and you’re shivering while radiating enough heat to cook pasta. I’m not leaving yet”
He studied her for a long moment, something thoughtful and unsettled behind his gaze.
“You’re… good at this, you know?” he said finally. “Taking care of people.”
She blinked. “Am I?”
“Yeah.” A beat. “And you don’t even seem impressed by the fact that I’ve been doing my best Regan MacNeil impression all day. Just thinking about it makes me feel like throwing up again”
She snorted before she could stop herself. “Oh, please, then don't think”
He frowned faintly. “How many times was it?”
“Five.”
He looked genuinely alarmed. “You’re counting?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know that much food could fit inside one human stomach.”
That got a laugh out of him: thin, weak, but real. It dissolved some of the tension in the room, left something lighter in its wake.
He shook his head slowly. “Humbling.”
“Good,” she said. “You need it.”
He closed his eyes again, smiling faintly, then opened them just enough to look at her. “You really don’t have to stay.”
“I know,” she said. “But I will.”
That was the quiet truth of it: simple, irrevocable.
She guided him to the bed when his legs finally gave out on the pretense of standing on their own. The sheets were cool and crisp against his overheated skin, and he sank into them with a sound that was half relief, half defeat.
She returned with a plastic bowl from the kitchen and set it on the nightstand within easy reach, along with a glass of water and the medicine she’d found after rifling through his bathroom cabinet like a trespasser in a museum. Everything in his life was labeled, sorted, controlled. Even his illness came with instructions.
“Just in case,” she said, pointing to the bowl. “I also got you Tylenol for the fever, some Zofran here, some Bentyl for the cramps and… Is this thing apple juice?”
She frowned at the small bottle in her hand, trying to decipher the label. Even the simple things in Anthony’s life were complicated. The apple juice wasn't just apple juice; it was Possmann Apple Juice, imported from Germany, the gothic script on the glass looking as elite and inaccessible as the man himself.
“It is.“ he confirmed, as she handed him the bottle.
“Drink it first. You’re dehydrated, and the pills on an empty stomach will hurt you.”
Anthony leaned his head back against the wall, his throat working as he swallowed against a fresh wave of nausea. “No,” he rasped, his eyes squeezed shut. “I won’t keep it down. Don’t… don't make me do this.”
“Small sips,” Fran commanded, her voice leaving no room for the corporate titan to negotiate. She nudged the glass bottle against his lower lip. “You’re losing too much fluid, Anthony. If you don't drink this, I’m calling a private doctor to put you on an IV, and we both know how much you’ll hate that.”
A flicker of his old defiance flared in his eyes, but it was dampened by exhaustion. He hated being handled. He hated being seen like this. But more than that, he knew she was right.
With a shaky hand, he reached up to steady the bottle.
Took one careful sip and paused, waiting, bracing for rejection that didn’t come.
Another sip followed. Then a third.
The juice hit his parched throat cool and sharp, immediate relief blooming across his face before he could stop it. His shoulders eased a fraction, tension bleeding out of him. He swallowed again, deeper this time, encouraged by the way it soothed the burning in his chest.
For a brief moment, it worked.
Fran saw it with relief too: the way his breathing evened out, the way his mouth relaxed as if his body had finally agreed to cooperate. Encouraged, he took another sip. Then one more, slightly larger than the last.... and it was too much.
She caught it instantly. Tthe hitch in his throat, the way his swallow stalled halfway. His stomach clenched, visibly beneath the thin fabric of his pajamas.
He gagged.
“Bad idea? Fuck!” Francesca said, already moving. “In the bowl. Here. Use the bowl.”
The last sip never made it down. He turned his head sharply, spitting the juice he hadn’t managed to swallow into the bowl. His body rebelled, he retched hard, the sound raw and miserable, emptying all the cool juice back out almost exactly as it had gone in, followed by thin, sour liquid that burned its way up.
She lifted the bowl it under his chin just in time, one hand firm at his back, feeling the way he shook as it passed.
When it was over, he sagged against her without thinking.
She froze for half a second, then let him.
He was still damp from the shower, fever-hot and trembling, his head falling forward until his forehead rested against her shoulder. She could smell the shampoo in his hair, clean and sharp, feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing as he tried not to be sick again.
“I can’t keep anything down,” he said hoarsely.
“You told me so, I should've listened. I'm sorry”
The words felt almost unnatural, leaving her lips. For Francesca, an apology was a rare concession, a dent in an ego that usually stood as tall as the skyscrapers outside. She didn't do 'sorry'; she did 'right.'
But looking at Anthony now, the sharp edges of her pride had softened. Seeing him this fragile, knowing her insistence on the juice had triggered that last violent bout of sickness, sparked something more visceral than mere pity. It was guilt, cold and unwelcome, settling deep in her chest. For the first time in three years, she didn't want to win the argument; she just wanted him to stop hurting. “I feel miserable" He said again. "I know."
Francesca hesitated, her hand hovering in the air. She almost resisted the urge. It was too intimate, too far over the line... but then she gave in. She reached out, running her fingers through his hair in a slow, rhythmic caress. Anthony didn't pull away; he simply let out a shuddering breath and leaned into her touch.
“You can go home.”
“I know.”
She stayed anyway, anchoring him as he rode out the nausea.
Minutes stretched. The city hummed faintly beyond the glass walls, distant and irrelevant. Anthony Moretti lay half-curled against her, still shivering, still burning, still breathing, because she was there to notice it.
“Now that's a moment” she said quietly.
A breath that might’ve been a laugh left him. “What?”
“Losing a fight with apple juice is… formative.”
His fingers twitched against her sleeve, then curled into the fabric. “You won’t tell anyone.”
She huffed softly. “Please. No one would believe me.”
He nodded faintly, eyes closed.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied smoothly. “I’ll pretend this never happened.”
His fingers tightened slightly in her sleeve. “You won’t.”
She smiled, small and sharp. “No. But I’ll be kind about it.”
And for the first time since she’d known him, Anthony Moretti didn’t try to argue.
Dipsea for emeto???
I would die for an app like Dipsea with emetostories in audio. Can you imagine all the gross sounds in the middle of the stories… and the romance 😩🔥 Where is this in my life already.
sickie is so nauseous. like, soooo nauseous. their stomach is killing them, they’re drooling, the whole nine yards. maybe they drank too much, or they’ve come down with a horrid stomach bug.
caretaker frowns, sighing.
“let me help.”
caretaker uses their ring and pinkie finger to help hold a plastic bag/bucket/trash can under sickie’s mouth, while their index and middle fingers track across their tongue and into the back of their throat..
“what’re ‘ou’ doin’?” sickie asks, voice muffled from the way caretaker’s fingers are stuffed in their mouth. Tears form in their eyes, and they cough when their fingers finally hit the back of their throat.
“shh.. just let me help you..”
Interact with this post if people can always drop random whump asks in your ask box👀
hello! I saw your amazing writing and was curious! Do you by chance write sickfics for Genshin??
have a good day!!
Hiii! Thank you so much ♡ About your question, the answer is no. Unfortunately I don't even know what that is lol. I'm sorry, anon
The Caretaker - Emeto fanfiction
TW: emeto, sickness. These two have been my roman empire for the past few months and I decided to write down a moment of vulnerability between them that I imagined. I hope you like it, but if you didn't, please just scroll and don't be mean to me, please 🥹 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- "You were just amazing last night, babe. The crowd was insane. Everyone's talking about it" Travis said, checking the news on his phone. The soft glow of the Parisian afternoon filtered through the curtains. His eyes were twinkling, always amazed by his girl's performances and the comments about it afterwards.
Taylor smiled back, but it was faint. "What? Is there something wrong?" he asked, noticing how uncommonly her hand was resting on her midsection. "I don’t know. My stomach feels off." she admitted.
His expression shifted to concern, getting closer and evolving her in a loving hug. "Uh-oh, did we go too hard on the crepes for breakfast?" he joked, kissing her face. His eyes softened when she didn’t laugh. "Do you want me to get you something? Water, maybe?"
She nodded, grateful for his attentiveness. "Yeah, water might help. I’m hoping it’s just something small." She sat down on the bed. "I think I’m gonna lie down for a bit before we go out tonight, ok? Maybe a nap will do the trick."
"Good idea," he agreed, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "Take your time, I’ll be here."
She smiled softly, heading to the bed, and he watched her until she pulled the blankets over herself. Her eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion and discomfort mingling as she drifted off.
It looked like she had just closed her eyes when something woke her up. It was still bright outside, she could see it even through the fancy blackout curtains. She rolled over in bed, her eyes catching Travis standing by the balcony, talking on his phone. His voice was low, casual, he had no idea she could hear him:
"Yeah, man, it’s been incredible so far." he was saying, his eyes sweeping over the view of the Parisian rooftops. "We’re gonna take a stroll later, me and Tay, maybe grab dinner with a few friends of her. I'll let you know."
She shifted in bed, trying to decide if she should get up and join him or try to get back to sleep, since the nap hasn't been enough time to rest. As she moved, though, a familiar wave of nausea hit. She clutched her stomach, a groan escaping her lips.
Travis must have heard the sound because his voice hesitated on the line. "Hold on a sec, man," he said, turning his head towards the bed. "Babe, you good?"
Before she could even answer, the nausea overwhelmed her, and she bolted out of bed, rushing to the bathroom. The door swung shut behind her, and the muffled sounds of her retching echoed from inside.
Travis’s face tensed with concern. He hurried off the call, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I gotta go, something’s up with Taylor." He hung up, placing his phone on the nightstand as he quickly approached the bathroom door.
"Hey, Tay, you okay in there, babe?" he asked gently, knocking softly. He could hear her, the strained noises and the faint sound of running water as she attempted to steady herself. His heart sank a little.
"I thought I was, but…" she started, but the wave hit her again.
"Is it coming from down or upper?" he teased with a grin, trying to lighten the moment.
Taylor, despite her discomfort, let out a soft laugh. "Upper, thankfully. But it feels like everything’s upside down."
He opened the door cautiously, finding her leaning over the toilet, her face pale and beads of sweat clinging to her forehead. She looked up, flushing it, embarrassed but relieved to see him. "It’s just… ugh, this stupid stomach. I knew something was off"
Travis didn’t hesitate. "I'm sorry about that," he said, stepping closer and kneeling down, rubbing her back in soothing circles. "How about we get you back to bed, and I’ll bring some ginger tea? You barely even slept."
"I know, right? I've been down for what? Fifteen minutes?" There was concern in her face too, the fact that the nausea had woken her up right after closing her eyes.
"Yeah, twenty minutes or so. Jason called right when you fell asleep and he was still on the phone with me when you got up, so quick that it was" Travis said, getting up on his feet and pulling her up. She nodded, her expression softening. "I’m sorry, Trav… Maybe if I go to sleep again… I don't know, there's still time until the time we planned to leave, right? I can get better."
He shook his head, pulling Taylor in for a comforting hug. "Nah, none of that. We’ll take it easy tonight. We'll order room service and have a cozy night in. The city can wait."
"No, babe, really. I want to feel better. I want to go for a stroll around Paris with you. I've been dreaming about this all week."
Taylor couldn’t help but smile through the discomfort, around his loving arms. Travis always had this way of making things feel okay, even when they clearly weren’t: "It's ok. Rest for a while, when you're up again we see if we should stay or go." Said the footballer, as he helped her back to the bed.
A few hours later, Taylor stirred awake from her nap, blinking as she adjusted to the dimming Paris light. She stretched, feeling her body finally relax a bit after the rough past moments. The discomfort in her stomach had faded, and she was determined to make the most of the night. They were in Paris, after all.
“You sure you’re up for it?” he asked, watching while she showered, a protective look on his face. “Definitely. I feel so much better now” she assured him, putting on her brightest smile. Her eyes were full of determination, and Travis, always doing his best to support her, nodded.
“Alright, but only because you’re looking at me with those eyes” he grinned “And because you look this good naked in front of me.”
Both laughed. As soon as she finished the shower Taylor moved to the closet, letting the bathroom free for Trav. He entered, closed the door and busied himself in there, the buzz of his electric razor drifting out, a sound proof that he would take a while before showering, as he always did when it came to his beard.
Outside, the singer was pulling out a stunning dress she’d picked for the night and then applying her makeup carefully, every stroke feeling like an affirmation of her renewed energy. "I'm so glad I'm feeling better. Tonight will be perfect." she thought.
In the very end – as the sound of the shower was already on, inside the bathroom – she had just fastened her heels, and was ready to finish the look with her famous red lipstick, when a familiar twinge hit her again on this day, even stronger than before. Taylor paused, one hand on her stomach. She took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. "No, not again, please" she thought, looking at the closed bathroom door, closing her eyes and willing herself to push through.
The feeling intensified. She could hear Travis humming in the shower, and she didn’t want to bother or scare him. He’d been nothing but patient and sweet all day. She took another breath, steadying herself, but the wave of nausea surged, and this time, it wasn’t something she could ignore. She moved as quickly as she could toward the bathroom door, knocking.
“Trav? Babe, can you hurry up in there?, please” she called, her voice a little strained. There was too much noise inside with the strong jets of water from the fancy shower, he couldn't listen.
"Babe? Please!"
She knocked, even more strongly and received a silence back, as if the shower was shut off in a sudden, right before Travis opened the door, his lower body wrapped in a white towel, and a scared look on his face, taking one look at her: “Gonna be sick again?” he asked, his brows furrowing as she ran inside and tried to reach for the toilet, but it wasn't fast enough. The nausea overwhelmed her, and she spat a little on the floor on the way to the sink, that was closer. There, her slim body shuddered with each wave, finally letting it all out.
“Whoa, easy there, Tay,” Travis said, immediately moving to her side. He rubbed her back, his other hand holding her hair out of the way. "Alright, just let it out, babe. You'll feel better. Let it out" he encouraged, rubbing her back gently.
Wiping her mouth, Taylor said, mortified, reaching for the facial towel. “I’m so sorry… I thought I was fine.”
She shuddered, another wave coming up, and this time it was more intense. The noise that came with it was harsh. A retching sound that echoed in the bathroom, mixing with the splatter of the vomit hitting the ceramic basin. Her eyes watered, and she coughed, her face flushed with embarrassment.
Travis winced slightly at the sight but kept his hands on her back, offering steady support.
"Watch your step" he guided her – deviating from the puddle on the floor – to the border wall of the bath, where she could sit for a while, after all, while he cleaned up the little mess and dressed himself in the shirt and shorts he had just taken off before the shower and were still around.
"Babe, I'm sorry – she said, watching while he did the cleaning around – It's so gross and I'm really embarrassed."
Travis could see she was feeling miserable. He shook his head, calming her down: "It’s just human stuff, Tay. We all go through it. Don't feel bad". When the floor was clean enough, he approached her with gentle eyes: "Let's take off this dress, ok? Arms up.” said, softly, helping her out of the dress. The fabric, now damp and stained, slipped off her shoulders as he carefully peeled it away. "I like it better when I'm not sick while you do it, you know…" she mumbled and they both let out a mischievous laugh.
“We'll be back to doing it in no time, don't worry.” he replied, his eyes meeting hers with a soft smile “As soon as you're feeling better".
He reached for a bath towel and gave it to her, so she could wrap herself in it. While she was doing it, he sat behind her and grabed a washcloth, running it under the warm water of the bathtub, spreading it through Taylor's collar and shoulders. The touch was gentle and he was taking care to make her feel comfortable.
When he reached her hair, he grimaced. “Oh, babe, we’ve got a bit of a situation here.” He wiped away the remnants that had tangled in her hair. “Looks like Paris really left its mark tonight,” he joked, making her smile despite the situation. "Gross. Could you go get my pajamas while I take a shower and get this all off of me?" she asked, feeling strong enough to stand up and go to the shower again.
The night hadn't gone quite as planned, but even through the mess and the sickness, she felt better for knowing her boyfriend was, and would always be there for her, no matter what.
I’m looking for more blogs to follow!
If you post emeto, whump, or sickfics, please reblog this post!
This is my sideblog, so follows will be from my main. I’m pretty new to the illness & injury community, and I only know a couple blogs.
Thinking ab tiny, comforting, caretaking gestures
Caretaker gently touching whumpees thigh under the table, letting them know that their discomfort isn’t being ignored
Caretaker holding onto whumpees bicep, keeping them steady under the guise of a meaningless touch
Caretaker rubbing small circles on whumpees back as they cough or get sick, giving them a bit of comfort through the violence of their illness
Caretaker playing with whumpees sweaty hair, feeling their fever-warm skin and holding them close
Caretaker whispering small words of encouragement, little “shh”s and “it’s okay, it’s okay”s under their breath as whumpee cries, because they just don’t feel well
Whumpee collapsing into caretakers arms as they sob, because they’ve never felt this loved through such small actions
so so sweet ♥️
Unexpected Twists - Liv and Ash.
TW: emeto, sickness. This is my first published sickfic, I hope you like it. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The sunset lights cast a warm glow over the town as Asher drove towards the local cinema. A random Wednesday night had turned into an impromptu movie date for him and Olivia and they chatted animatedly about the film they were about to see, the excitement mirrored in the sparkle of their eyes and the shared laughter.
Asher, with his enthusiasm for special effects, shared his anticipation for the stunning visuals that the movie had been so popular for. Olivia, the romantic dreamer, eagerly talked about the potential love story woven into the narrative. They shared a brief, affectionate look, the promise of a day filled with enchantment unfolding before them.
He parked the car near the cinema entrance, and as soon as they got out of the vehicle, the aroma of buttered popcorn wafted through the air, igniting their senses. Olivia couldn't help but nudge Asher playfully, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I can already taste that popcorn. Let's get a huge tub to share, okay?" "I wouldn't want it any other way, babe" he said, placing a kiss on top of her head, effortlessly, due to the height gap between them, as they strolled hand in hand towards the line of the concession stand, where they exchanged fondlings until it was their time to order. A colossal bucket of popcorn to share, accompanied by a large coke for each.
Finding their seats in the dimly lit theater, they settled in. The lights dimmed, signaling the beginning of the movie, and they snuggled into their seats, eager for the cinematic adventure to unfold.
The movie transported the audience into a mystical realm filled with towering castles, lush landscapes, and mythical creatures. The special effects were nothing short of spectacular, captivating viewers from the first frame. Liv looked up to see Asher eyes sparkling, because she just couldn't handle how sweet he looked, amazed by something she knew he liked so much. He pulled her closer, when he noticed her loving eyes towards him
The breathtaking landscapes and thrilling action sequences were punctuated by moments of genuine emotion. Olivia, realizing she hadn't eaten since lunch, dug into the popcorn with newfound enthusiasm. The crunching sounds filled the quiet moments of the film as she devoured the popcorn.
"SO delicious!" she whispered to him, rolling her eyes with pleasure, licking her own buttery fingertips. "Don't you want some?" Asher chuckled, accepting the popcorn. "Thanks, Liv. You really know how to enjoy your snacks."
Throughout the film, Olivia and Asher couldn't help but share other whispered comments and excited glances about the scenes. The chemistry between the main characters sparked a sense of awe and admiration, mirroring the connection Olivia and Asher felt in their own lives.
However, as the movie progressed, Liv's initial excitement gave way to an unexpected sensation. A subtle discomfort crept into the pit of her stomach, causing her to shift uneasily in her seat. At first, it was a gentle flutter, an inconspicuous whisper of discomfort that she attempted to brush off, determined not to ruin the day for Asher.
She shifted in her seat, adjusting the angle of her legs and fidgeting with the straw of her Coke. As the minutes passed, the sensation morphed into a persistent knot, tightening with each passing moment and a feeling of uncomfortable warmth growing bigger and bigger. Olivia discreetly pressed her hand against her stomach, hoping the pressure would alleviate the growing unease.
Beside her, Asher noticed something was off. "Liv, everything okay?" he asked with concern etched across his face. Forcing a smile, she nodded. "Yeah, just a little off. Shouldn't have eaten so much popcorn so fast. But don't worry, I'm fine." Unconvinced, Asher reached for her hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles. Olivia welcomed the gesture, hoping the gentle touch would quell the rising discomfort. Yet, the uneasy sensation persisted, growing more pronounced with each passing moment.
Attempting to distract herself, she turned her attention back to the movie, but the queasiness persisted. The vibrant colors on the screen seemed to blur as her focus wavered. Feeling a subtle dizziness, she stretched her neck, hoping to alleviate the tension that had crept into her muscles.
"Are you sure you're okay, boo?" Olivia was thankful for Asher's caring nature, but remained adamant. "I'm fine, Ash, really. Let's just enjoy the movie. It'll pass."
Asher couldn't shake off his concern, sensing something was amiss. "Is it really just your stomach or is there something else?" From the rapidly changing lights and colors in the room, he couldn't tell for sure, but Olivia's face looked a little pale. "I don't know, I feel kinda hot." She confessed, despite her extremities; hands and feet; seemed colder than ever. Concerned, Asher touched her face, as if checking for a fever. His touch felt warmer and drier than her skin, which led her to conclude that she was breaking out in a cold sweat.
"Let's go home." he said, preparing to move. "No! It's the middle of the movie, what are you thinking?" she answered, reaching for his arm to keep him from standing up. He nodded, taking a deep breath. "If you're doing it because of me, don't worry, Liv. I'd rather take you home than have you suffer through this. We can come back and watch the movie another time." She held his hand once more: "It will pass. I promise. If it doesn't, I'll let you know and we can go."
In a final attempt to distract herself, Olivia took a sip of Asher's coke, hoping the effervescence might settle her stomach. Yet, the sensation of nausea persisted, growing more pronounced and impossible to ignore. Minutes later, a wave of lightheadedness washed over her, and she subtly gripped the armrests of her seat.
She could hear the people laughing from a funny scene, but couldn't even tell what the funny line was. She had her eyes closed, trying to focus on her breathing, but nothing seemed to help.
Feeling the onset of an unwelcome ordeal, Olivia finally turned to Asher with a defeated expression and a tearful tone: "Babe, I'm so sorry, but I really don't feel well now. I think we should go."
Quick as an arrow, Asher stood up, completely ignoring the fact that people in the back rows might have a partially impaired view of the screen. "Come here, let's get you home." he stretched out his hands towards his girlfriend to help her stand. "Can you walk?" Asher asked, willing to carry her if necessary. "Yeah, yeah, let's just… go."
As they made their way out of the dimly lit movie theater, the hallway's bright lights felt harsh against Olivia's sensitive eyes. The unease in her stomach had escalated, and a subtle dizziness had turned into a disorienting sway. Asher, then, wrapped a supportive arm around her, steadying her as they navigated through the bustling crowd.
With each step, Olivia leaned on her loving boyfriend, appreciating his strength and stability.
Reaching the car, Asher opened the passenger door and gently guided Liv into the seat. He leaned the seat backward, allowing her to recline a bit, hoping it would provide some relief. Olivia sighed, grateful for the gesture, and closed her eyes, attempting to find comfort in the darkness behind her eyelids.
"How does that make you feel? Better or worse?" He inquired, his voice laced with genuine concern.
Olivia took a moment to assess the change. The reclined seat offered a brief reprieve from the overwhelming discomfort, but the underlying unease persisted. She managed a faint smile and answered: "A little better, thanks. I think I just need a moment."
"I'm right here." He said. The subtle hum of the car engine and the distant chatter from the cinema's exit created a cocoon of tranquility around them. Some minutes later, she exclaimed: "I think I can make it home now, babe. Please."
With that, Asher put the seatbelt on her, closed the passenger door, walked around to the driver's side, and started the car. The engine's purr filled the air as they began the journey home.
"Oh no!" Liv exclaimed, minutes later, feeling the swaying motion of the car bringing all her nausea back. She clutched her stomach, a desperate attempt to contain the heaves. Asher glanced at her with concern, his focus momentarily shifting from the road. "What 's wrong?"
Liv forced herself to sit up, despite the reclined seat and the rattling of the car over a bumpy street, pressing her lips together, unable to answer, determined to avoid any embarrassing moments in the confined space of the car. Asher kept asking multiple times what was wrong, trying to focus on both her and the road. Her hand fumbled around the interior of the car and the front door pocket, looking for a plastic bag. With a quick glance at the glove compartment, she reached for it and opened it in haste, but couldn't find anything there.
"Babe, talk to me. What do you need? Are you going to throw up?"
She nodded weakly, unable to muster the strength to speak.The swaying of the car combined with the bumpy street had pushed her to her limit, and she desperately tried to keep everything under control.
"Damn, there's nowhere to stop." Ash said to himself, desperately hoping to pull over so his girl could relieve herself. Responding swiftly, with a mix of urgency and determination, he managed to reach his arm back to the floor of the back seats, grabbing a small shopping bag that he knew had been left there.. Liv was now in full distress, her face turning green and her groans getting louder.
"Here" he said, handing it to Liv.
She gratefully accepted the bag, relief washing over her face. In a swift motion, she positioned the bag just in time as her body gave in to the nausea.
The quiet confines of the car were abruptly shattered by a series of guttural sounds. Just when Olivia thought she couldn't endure it any longer, the next wave hit with a force that nearly sent her sprawling. A surge of stomach-churning heaves expelled a much larger volume, her belly contracting.
Each heave was a forceful expulsion, leaving Liv feeling momentarily weightless before the next wave hit. The cramps in her belly tightened and released in sync with the violent contractions, creating a relentless rhythm of discomfort. Gasps for breath punctuated the symphony, revealing the toll the ordeal was taking on her.
"Oh my God, finally." Finally spotting a quieter side road, Asher made a swift turn, the car coming to a stop. He opened the door by his side and jumped out the car, running to the other side and opening Liv's door as well. "I'm so sorry, baby girl." he said, caressing her back, his heart breaking for seeing her in such suffering.
The involuntary burps that followed each heave only added to the disconcerting symphony of bodily functions. Nothing was coming out anymore, but she had her face positioned in the center of the opened bag, now filled with body fluids and pieces of undigested corn husk.
Olivia, then, felt a surge of terrible remorse. The weight of embarrassment and vulnerability settled heavily upon her, and she avoided meeting Asher's gaze for a moment.
On the other hand, his eyes softened, reflecting not judgment but a compassionate understanding. "Can I do something for you? Maybe get you some water?" she shook her head. "Let me throw this away." Ash asked for the plastic bag, afraid that the sight from the inside could make Liv even sicker.
She then led the gross bag to him and he walked a few steps far to throw it away in a toter cart in front of a house nearby.
"Hey, are you crying?" he asked, noticing that she was sobbing, both hands covering her face, when he came back. "No, no, babe. You're scaring me. Why do you cry?"
His face shifted from concern to a deeper worry, gently reaching for her hands, urging her to lower them.
"I... I don't know. I'm just embarrassed, and I hate that this happened. It 's so gross. I am sorry, Ash. I ruined our movie date."
Asher's expression softened with relief. He was genuinely scared that her crying had something to do with the sickness, terrified of the idea that she could be in pain.
"You didn't ruin anything, Livy, none of this is your fault. You can't blame yourself for being sick." he gently wiped away a stray tear from her cheek "I care about you, more than anything. More than about a little mess in the car or a movie that I can still watch afterwards. Ok? Don't be sorry."
Olivia nodded, appreciating the reassurance and compassion in her partner's words.
"My real concern now is… do I have to take you to a hospital? Call your parents? Has it ever happened to you before?"
He wanted to know, feeling that this episode had been more than just an upset stomach thing.
"I've had a blood pressure drop once, back home. It just wasn't as bad as today, but my eyesight got blurry and I threw up in the shower" she said, remembering the last time she felt bad "Argh! It was gross, too. It doesn't require a doctor, though. And calling my parents would only make them worry, so I think… Just take me home, Ash. You've done enough for me for a lifetime."
Asher understood Liv's reluctance to involve her parents or seek medical help, but he also felt the need to ensure her safety. "I know you just want to rest, after everything, but I can't just leave you alone" He then proposed an alternative. "So, you either come to my house, so I can keep a closer eye on you, or I stay the night at your place to be with you in case something happens. What's your choice?"
Liv, a bit taken aback by the prospect of spending the night alone with her relatively new boyfriend, felt a sudden surge of anxiety. The idea of such intimacy in their fledgling relationship made her slightly rigid.
"Nothing that you don't want is going to happen. I promise." He said, touching her hand "I know we planned a special night for our first night together, but we can still have it, another day. Tonight we're only going to rest."
Asher's calming words and considerate approach helped to ease Liv's nerves. She took a deep breath, appreciating his genuine concern and the sincerity in his eyes. After a moment of contemplation, she nodded. "Okay, let's go to your place then. Thank you."
With a reassuring smile, he walked back to the driver's seat and started the car, their destination now determined.
The unexpected turn of events had brought about a new level of intimacy in their relationship, proving that even in the face of challenges, love and care would be the foundation of their journey together.
"You know what? I think we're doing it right." Ash said, looking at her with a fond look, as she asked: "Why so?"
"In sickness and in health. The vow has to start somewhen..."
He then blinked one of the eyes in her direction, guiding the car with one hand and pulling the other one to her tights. "...And for us, it might have started today."
Hi
After many years of visiting my favorite accounts from outside, I decided to finally create my own little place here. I feel like this might go somewhere.... Maybe share some of my writing, accept requests to write even more, who knows? Let's see how it goes.
